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So here we are again.
Alone with our thoughts and
the samba gently playing in the
background flavoring the mind
in red pulses of heat, orange drapes
and that sweet jamaica taste of
your neck, I kiss, you grin.
And we slowly slow down as Rúben Blades
takes over the track.

Alone
I dance along the wood floor
carving into my bare feet the
recuerdos de tu amor
along the hallway.
I pull you to dance
and you’re not there.

I see you every now and then
at the bakery ordering guava-cheese
and I keep walking by,
no me quieres ver anymore, cariño
but you do.
I know you do.
In those moments when Pérez Prado
adorns your kitchen walls on Sunday
mornings
like church in our young days.

Salsa fresca and plátanos fritos
don’t taste the same to you
since then
so you annex them in that box
you created for me,
papeleado with confetti
and manteca Farmer John’s
because your vegan ways can’t
take that anymore either.

You gleam when I dance.
Gleam like that subtle upper
lip sweat I drew
when Tito played and we stayed
like crows in the night
dancing our heads and
caressing our speech
singing through oceans of orgasms
and fingertips.
That was a beautiful October night
that the Santa Ana’s made
with clear skies and that wildfire
moon. It was like the world knew.